Balance
by tiltedsyllogism
Summary: "It's not so bad, actually, this," John says, in a slow cautious cadence that will not disturb the measure of their matched steps. "I'm not worried about falling, with you here." "That's the idea," Sherlock replies, also matching his words to the rhythm of their footfalls. - Three days before the wedding, Sherlock teaches John how to waltz.


John had been a little self-conscious, to start with, so Sherlock had poured a tumbler of scotch for each of them. John is now somewhat looser of limb than usual (both good and bad, for the task at hand), his face even more expressive (also both good and bad, for Sherlock), and in the warm lamplight of 221b Baker Street, his eyes are very bright. It's been awhile since John has been here; too long. Two days, because he and Mary had somehow spent the entire day in final fittings, and yesterday had made a trip out to the reception site. Two days is too long.

John is standing, now, in what he thinks is good dancing form: back straight (military, only to be expected) but elbows low, arms in that absurd chicken wing position that most people seem to think is appropriate, obviously because they can't actually see themselves. His eyes are on Sherlock, enquiring, waiting. Oh. How long has Sherlock been standing here, looking at John?

"So," he says, drawing out the sibilant, then a sharp, crisp vowel: the voice of alert and dispassionate assessment. "First of all," he steps into John's space, pushes John's elbows to shoulder height with upturned palms, "arms at shoulder height, you look ridiculous. You're giving Mary absolutely nothing to work with." He reaches up and takes John's right hand to rotate it slightly inward before returning to the elbow. A small smile flits across John's face, that peculiar blend of joyful forbearance that he seems to have in endless reserve for Sherlock alone. Sherlock withdraws his hands, and John's arms stay where he put them. John quirks his head, just a bit of sass: _I've got this, haven't I?_ It's one of Sherlock's favorite expressions, a face he hasn't seen John make in some time, a heap of tiny anxieties (serviettes, seating arrangements) burying his rough-edged humor.

Two days is nothing compared to what's coming, of course. Mary has assured him otherwise, and John still shows every sign of wanting to pursue cases with Sherlock, but neither of them has ever been married before, what do they know? Perhaps once it's done, they will circle in on each other and pull away from everyone else, away from Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson has made passing remarks that suggest this is likely. He breathes in deeply, to focus, clamps his hands to his hips.

"Not bad," Sherlock allows. "Chin up, though, it's no good standing straight if you're going to droop like a wilting flower up at the top." His fingers dig into his sides; there's been more than enough touching. He reaches up, tips up his own chin. Will that be enough? John misses so many things. He draws his own arms up into proper ballroom frame, elbows shoulder height, lifting his head just a shade higher as he does. "Do you see the lines? Knees to the center of the chest, and the head…."

He drops off at the sound of John's chuckle. "Yeah, all right, I see." John has relaxed his form and now stands, arms loosely folded, watching Sherlock fondly. "Might need to lower your expectations there, though. You could put my head in a bloody winch and I still won't come out looking like you."

Sherlock swings round so John can see the line of his back. John doesn't need to see his face. "You'll do fine. But you _will_ look ridiculous if you keep your eyes on your feet like that."

"Yeah, that's all right for you," says John, "but me over here, I'm still learning the steps."

"The steps are secondary," Sherlock returns, over his own left shoulder. "You don't dance with your feet."

John raises his eyebrows in exaggerated surprise. "News to me. I'll just get down on hands and knees, then, shall I?"

Sherlock sighs theatrically. If John can make faces like a circus clown, surely he can be permitted the full breadth of his natural expressive range. "You move from _here_ ," he said, tapping the center of his chest with gathered fingers. John is often a visual learner. "Nobody wants to see you marching around the floor like a marionette. The trick is to _glide_." He draws up into frame and moves through a few measures of waltz step. "There, you see? A slight rise and fall around the final step, but otherwise quite smooth. None of this…." – he flicks his wrists as if casting off some unsavory substance, and perhaps John does have a point about the semantic fervor of his gestures, he will have to consider it later, when he isn't otherwise occupied – "galumphing about like one of the oafish robots from that film."

"Which film? I – oop…" John cuts himself up as he stumbles, trying to mimic Sherlock's glide but setting his foot down too early, so that he nearly topples backward. Sherlock nearly catches his elbow, but John's got his feet under him now and his hands out, for steadiness but also for distance. The creases of his forehead and the set of his shoulders warn Sherlock off.

"All right?" he asks quietly.

"Yeah. Pshhh." John shakes his head and laughs a bit as he draws himself up to standing. "So much for gliding. It'll be robot galumphing for me, I guess."

It will be John, John and Mary stomping about like they're in snow boots, but he feels annoyed anyhow, annoyed as he always is by seeing a thing done badly. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course you can do it, it just takes a bit of practice. And – here." Sherlock steps round behind John, close enough to be sensed if not quite close enough for contact, and with his fingertips brings John's shoulders in alignment with his own. With his left hand still on John's shoulder, he gives his friend a small push between the shoulder blades. "There you are," he says quietly. "Heart forward." John tips his shoulders back slightly, in response to Sherlock's cue, and the crown of his head bumps Sherlock's chin.

"Sorry about that," John says, a touch of laughter lightening his voice. "Hair in your mouth."

"It's not a problem," Sherlock says softly. "You're meant to lean back. I'll steady you." He takes John's right hand in his and lifts it into frame; John takes the hint and raises his left hand out and upward, his arm curving along the inside of Sherlock's.

"Now," Sherlock says, "You'll start left foot forward. She'll be stepping back, and you move into her space."

John laughs, again. "That – is – what it's been like, yeah." He turns his head to the left, catches Sherlock's eye with the corner of his own. "Figures you'll be stepping forward into mine, doesn't it."

Sherlock manages a tight smile. "Perhaps. Shall we – "

"Right." John swivels his head forward again and draws himself up, leaning back a bit into Sherlock. "You'll count?"

"Yes."

"Slowly now," John warns. "And a three-count to warm up, first."

Sherlock counts, slowly, and together they step forward: John holding his head diligently erect, Sherlock careful to keep his steps short rather than scuff at John's ankles. It costs John a second's hesitation to remember where exactly his foot goes for the second step, but Sherlock draws out the "two" until their right feet are on the ground, and then they're moving forward, somewhat clumsily but holding their bodies in the proper upward curve. After a few measures, Sherlock stops counting, and they continue to travel the length of the room in silence.

"It's not so bad, actually, this," John says, in a slow cautious cadence that will not disturb the measure of their matched steps. "I'm not worried about falling, with you here."

"That's the idea," Sherlock replies, also matching his words to the rhythm of their footfalls.

"So I'm really supposed to – whoop!" John's foot lands wrong, and Sherlock catches him in the ankle, and quicker than thought his right hand is at John's waist, to keep him from falling and they're still moving, gliding through the stumble like it never happened. Sherlock squeezes the flesh of his fingers tight against the bones, tight enough to throb, but his touch along John's side remains gentle as he guides his friend backward, keeping him in time.

"Thanks," John murmurs. "Suppose I'd best stop talking for now, or we might both go down."

"True." It was never going to last forever, Sherlock knows that. He knows. But he guides them on through a few more steps, slowing down as he imagines the drawing out of the final notes of the melody he wishes were playing. Any melody, really, just so he would have another way into the memory. This is not something that will happen again.

But then it's over, and John has turned around before Sherlock has quite managed to let go. His fingers drop away as John steps back and oh, it's pathetic. This isn't real for John, this is just a practice run, so that three days from now he and Mary can move around the dance floor in perfect equilibrium. Like all they need to hold them up are each other. And even then it will be just a bit of theater, at its best only a facile projection of thing that John and Mary have built between them, solid and real like no performance could be; but it's something Sherlock can give them.

"You, um, you had a question," says Sherlock, inspecting the cuff of his sleeve.

John seems to collect himself. "Right! Yes." His brow furrows, his lips purse, and Sherlock knows that- oh yes, that slight cock of the head, John is skeptical of something. "I'm really supposed to lean back like that? _While_ we're dancing? It won't…" he licks his lips, and then grins. "I don't want anyone wondering about her breath."

Sherlock can't help smiling. John will never stop surprising him. "It won't look like that from the outside. It actually – you'll be leaning into each other's arms, so it will help you move better. Together." He pauses. Was that untoward? "Not that you…"

John puts up a hand. "Believe me, Sherlock, we know we need all the help we can get." He gives Sherlock a fond, sleepy smile, that smile that always warms Sherlock like the scotch they drank earlier in the evening. He is happy, comfortable, but he's also readying himself to go; slightly squared stance, as well as letting the tiredness drift into his voice. He's thinking of home, and home is someone else.

"Thanks for this, Sherlock," he says. "Really. Though I don't know that I'll be able to do it, that proper lean, without you behind me."

Sherlock smiles back. He can't help it. He'll need another scotch, he thinks, after John leaves. "Don't be ridiculous," he replies. "You know it now, you won't need me."

John shakes his head slightly, still smiling. "Naah," he says. "I may know it, but that doesn't mean I can get it right, without you."

Sherlock nods, slightly, and steps back so that John has a straight course to the door. John reaches out and grabs him by the arm. "Really, Sherlock, thanks. We'll see you tomorrow for the setting cards, yeah?"

Sherlock inclines his head. "Of course."

"All right." John squeezes his arm and then drops it. "Good night, then." Another smile and he's out the door, treading lightly on the stairs so as not to disturb Mrs. Hudson, but that's out of long habit: he's already thinking ahead, not behind. Sherlock goes to the window and watches his former flatmate as he walks down Baker Street toward the Tube station. It's harder than it should be to turn away from the window before John has disappeared from view, but he does. He closes his eyes and remembers tomorrow.


End file.
